


Poor Impulse Control

by the_six_fingered_villain



Category: Split (2016)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Gore, Implied/Referenced Torture, bad cop - Freeform, everyone is their worst self here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-09 10:54:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16448537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_six_fingered_villain/pseuds/the_six_fingered_villain
Summary: The Horde wrecks mayhem upon Philadelphia but they're not the first to get their hands on John Cooke.Now they want to know what's become of Case Cooke and they have a good idea of who to ask.





	1. Chapter 1

Absently Dennis rubbed some of the blood from his face. Again he had come into the Light to find himself standing barefoot and shirtless outside a suburban window. The blood was the least surprising fact about the situation.

A large figure moved within the room, throwing a shadow across the window and Dennis fought the urge to step back. Who knew how long The Beast had stood there, looking in. All Dennis could do at the moment was have faith that his position was secure and hold still enough to avoid attracting attention. The house was rural and far back enough from the road to have no real fear of pedestrians or neighbors.

It had taken him twenty minutes the second time to figure out where he was. The first time he'd simply slipped away, assuming it had been a random suburban home where The Beast had seen fit to relinquish the Light. The second time he'd stayed rooted in place till he eventually spotted a photo of Casey through the window. By the fourth time he came to standing outside the house without ever catching sight of the girl, he'd started to worry.

The plain suburban residence wasn't the only location The Beast seemed to haunt. Twice he'd stepped into the Light to find himself in the bushes next to a towering brick building. A sign declared it a county psychiatric hospital, which definitely gave Dennis a touch of dread.

The shadow lurched away, clearly drunk, even in outline only. A short while later the light went off and Dennis let himself creep away. Another night without Casey in sight. The man, he assumed her father, was clearly worked up about something but not in the way someone grieving over a lost child would be.

Dennis stopped by the creek behind the house and washed up. The moon had set by now so it was a bit of a struggle to find the bag he'd stashed here. After the third time coming to at the same location he decided he'd make the most of it. The water was icy and stung horribly but Dennis remained crouched and scrubbed continuously at his arms with the rag and soap he'd stashed.

Standing in the Light after The Beast had had his turn was hard. It was a trial and a burden, but it was one he could shoulder. Patricia had tried, once, to handle it but she'd quickly stepped out of the Light for him. To run barefoot and filthy through filthy streets was torturous but he was strong. It was always a balance though between reaching the nearest stash as fast as he could and not drawing attention to oneself. The tail end of summer was close enough that a barefoot crazy man wandering the streets late at night wasn't that abnormal in Philadelphia, but if he looked the part he also needed to act it. Those slow shuffling steps through gutter trash and early autumn leaves as a cop car rolled past were nearly unbearable.

Dennis slipped the bar of soap back into its ziplock bag. With some careful fumbling in the dark, he drew out a length of floss and set to work on his teeth. He understood The Beast had needs to sustain himself. He understood and believed in the greater vision that Patricia talked about. The better world. But still, when he ran his tongue across his teeth and would catch a bit of gristle or feel a long strand of hair coiled at the back of his throat, he couldn't help but gag. There had been one horrible evening where he felt something, probably a tendon, lodged between his lower left molars for the entire trip home and it'd almost broken him. That was before he'd started packing the floss.

A final swish of mouth wash, spit into the creek, and he was ready to go. Digging into his bag, he pulled out the generic brown mop of a wig and settled it carefully over his head. His square frame glasses were already perched on the bridge of his nose. None of the pictures that accompanied alerts about him showed him wearing glasses yet, which made him a little wary.

Tucking his hands in his jacket pocket, Dennis set out down the street. Keeping his gate to a casual stroll and his posture relaxed, he neatly avoided stepping on every crack from here to the motel.

 

* * *

  

The Casey residence. Again.

There's no sight of her, just the lurching drunk shadow moving about the house. For a moment, in those first couple confusing moments that come with stepping into the Light, Dennis thought he saw her. There was an intense just wall of emotions that hit him at the thought of it all. Had The Beast been watching her? What had she been doing? He knew what he hoped she'd been doing. But he wasn't to think that. But what if The Beast had been watching her dance? If The Beast wanted to watch, then shouldn't he be allowed to? Was that why he kept coming here? Did The Beast want the same thing Dennis did? Or did The Beast regret letting her go? Did The Beast no longer consider her worthy? Did Dennis care?

It took no more than a heartbeat for Dennis to realize he wasn't looking at her though, it was just a window left open and a lamp left on. All the thoughts left him reeling and it was a struggle to remain still. He was thankful that Patricia kept far away for these moments after The Beast had fed. Not knowing the answer to more than half the questions that had overwhelmed him, he certainly didn't want her needling him about any of it.

The shadow inside continued to lurch about, agitated as ever. Dennis's mind was buzzing and he couldn't sit still long. Taking a risk, he slipped away before the resident had gone to sleep. Hurrying away to the creek, he went through the rituals again. The faintest traces of fresh scratches raked his chest and shoulders, detectable only by touch in the dark. Someone had not gone easy, but as expected the unworthy were unable to stand against him. His fingers danced lower and touched the small divot on this left hip. The wound, likely from a hand gun, had appeared three nights ago but was almost gone by now. Truly amazing.

Once dressed, he set out and headed in the direction of the bus stop. The confused thoughts jumped and fluttered in his head, intermixed with flashes of what he couldn't think about. He couldn't think about them. Couldn't. Could not stop.

Raising his hand, he rubbed his lips across the back of a clenched fist. Patricia would lean near again soon, he needed to get his thoughts back under control. What if Hedwig caught hint of something? He was just wound so tight. He needed to relax. His eyes flicked across the street to a neon Open sign. While he wasn't that fond of drink, some of the others certainly partook. Patricia adored her glass of wine when cooking and Orwell could get poetic about certain meads and ciders.

He'd just have a drink or two. Act normal, blend in. Maybe they'd have the news on and he'd get a sense for how well all the pathetic unworthy understood what was happening.

 

* * *

 

That first bar had been filthy, Dennis turned around and left as soon as he walked in. But the dissatisfied feeling continued to rattle around and so he ducked into the next bar down the street. Thankfully it was a much cleaner establishment. Surprisingly, it seemed to also be a much less popular one.

Dennis sits at a bar, mediocre 90s music blaring out from some shitty sound system strug up around the space. It's loud enough to drown out any chatting going on amongst patrons and just this side of too loud. Some Radiohead song is playing when a woman drops down onto the stool next to him and a man next to her. The corner of Dennis's mouth turns down for a second in irritation but he quickly smooths out his expression. The bar isn't crowded but there's just enough folks for not everyone to have their own position of isolation. As a consolation, he adjusts the coaster under his glass. Again.

He was working on his second drink and close to regretting giving into his impulses. Patricia clearly has something she'd like to say about that, but he keeps his jaw locked.

Time passes.

"Praise You" kicks on, the opening verse drawn out artificially so that the word "should" becomes nothing more than digital noise. The guy two seats down the bar starts nodding his head in appreciation of the beat when the door to the bar kicks open. Without delay, the large form of John Cooke surges into the room and heads straight to the woman next to Dennis. She has time to lift her head and look up before John swings and she's sprawled out on the ground.

Dennis jumps up as do several other of the patrons, the woman's drink dripping off the bar onto the floor next to her. The man on the other side of the woman doesn't even turn, just reaches over and rights the glass before sliding his own drink and self over a bit, away from the puddle. There's a soft chuckle from the floor which seems so out of place no one else moves further.

"Fucking bitch!" John rages, sides heaving. "Who the fuck do you think you are, keeping my girl locked up?!?" A heavy work boot splattered with mud lashes out, but the woman has already rolled away and is raising up with a surprisingly limber twist to the movement. Dennis clenches his fists with recognition now and one of the other guys who stood up further down the bar takes a step forward with a growled, "Who the fuck-" before the woman's friend lays a hand on his arm.

"Why don't you just sit back down, buddy." His adds a hard stare along with this and the would be hero doesn't retreat immediately but with a gentle push he goes. No one else at the bar moves to interfere. In fact, several of the regulars pointedly turn back around and stare into their drinks. Harold picks up a towel and moves to the far end of the bar where he intently rubs a spotless stretch of wood. The woman bounces a bit back and forth on the balls of her feet, fists raised up before her. He appears to have split her lip and her tongue darts out to lick it. She grins.

Dennis is torn between stepping in to give this man a shake, desperate for an explanation of where Casey is, and blending into the dangerously small crowd of patrons turning a blind eye. He can sense Patricia wanting to hiss advice at him but keeps his jaw clenched. With intentional nonchalance that's a struggle to attain, he keeps his shoulders loose and his hand relaxed around the pint glass. It's impossible however not to turn and watch.

It's clear that she's letting John take another swing, which he eventually does, but this one never connects. Her two strikes in retaliation do. A crack to the jaw snaps his head up while a jab to the gut doubles him over. Blood immediately starts leaking from between his lips, but the trickle is quickly washed out by the torrent that erupts from his nose when she lands a third punch to the face. By the time he collapses to his knees, a wet animal cry emerging from behind hands clutching his face, she has danced back several steps and is shaking out her hands.

"Yeah, yeah, how you like that, huh?" she mutters under her breath before quickly stepping forward and dealing him a swift kick to the gut. Already bent in two and on the ground, her boot makes a sound of solid contact and he topples over onto his side. With a dancing step back and then forward, it's clear she's about to kick him again when the guy next to Dennis at the bar says, "Hey" rather sharply. The man doesn't turn from his drink and she doesn't look at him, but the kick is forestalled and she dances back from John again.

The Fatboy Slim track continues to happily roll out from the speakers mounted high around the room, loud enough to almost cover the wet gasps and unpleasant sounds coming from the heap of a man on the floor. John doesn't cry, the labored soggy breathing suggests he doesn't have the extra air for it quite yet. Everything sort of stays that way for a long period of time. There's a couple more kicks delivered as the song winds down, but nothing with quite the same intensity as the woman started with.

Eventually she steps away and with a final shake of the hands, rolls back to the bar. Bending down, she rights the stool that toppled over when she did. It's still slick with spilled beer and she scowls at it before glancing around. With an economy of movement, she reaches past Dennis, snagging the empty bar stool on the other side of him. With a carefully blank expression he looks up from the arm snaking behind him and into the woman's eyes. She tucks the dry seat before the bar and gives him a tight smile as she perches on it. Her split lip has stopped bleeding and she doesn't hold the expression or his gaze for long. Reaching forward, she taps the puddle on the bar before her.  
  
"Harold! What the fuck you cleaning over there for? Some asshole spilled my drink! I need a new one," with a carefully placed elbow, she leans on the bar and tucks her curled fist below her chin. She's turned to her companion, back to Dennis. Again, he can feel Patricia itching for the Light. Carefully he reaches up and adjusts his glasses before bringing his pint to his lips for a sip. The wig itches and he can feel a cold sweat breaking out between his shoulder blades. This all was exactly what he didn't need right now. He shouldn't be here. He couldn't afford to get involved in any of this right now. But watching the heap of John Cooke heave and shudder on the floor, he knew he wasn't going to just walk away from this. Casey's continued absence at home had confused him and he was sure he was about to figure out what exactly had been going on.

One of the guys at the far end of the bar looks a bit green about the gills. Tossing down a couple bills, he abandons his half drunk pint and hurries towards the door. The woman sights heavily, the start of some comment abandoned, and pushes off her stool to follow him. She catches up to him just as he reaches the door and they both step outside together, her arm just starting to drape over his shoulder. Dennis starts to turn back to the bar and stops as he catches the eye of the woman's companion. The man holds his gaze for a long second before sweeping across the bar, presumably making equally meaningful eye contact with the remaining patrons. No one else moves, except for the bartender who hurries over and wipes down the bar while the woman is gone. A drink has been poured and replaced upon a coaster just as she pushes back into the room, grinning.

"Thanks, Harold!" she chirps, perching happily on her stool again, "You're a doll!" After a hearty swallow, she brings the cold glass up to her jaw and holds it there a while. The labored breathing of John Cooke continues from the floor behind them all.

"So...." her companion starts with. He takes a swallow of his beer but when she doesn't say anything, her back again to Dennis, he continues "I hope you're happy with yourself. Now that you've expressed your feelings on the fat fuck, what were your thoughts on how to un-fuck this situation?" No one else at the bar spoke or even moved enough to sip their beer but it felt as if everyone leaned in expectantly. Lowering the glass from her jaw, she took another gulp and gave a wave of her free hand.

"No problem," carefully she set her glass upon the coaster. It isn't centered on the square and Dennis could feel a twitch with the urge to adjust it. "There's no problem here at all," With a wide smile she surveys customers around the bar, only Dennis and two others explicitly meeting her gaze. "What we have here is just a basic civil misunderstanding. See, this piece of shit here," she pushes off the stool again and wanders over to John, "thinks he can just... do things. Just do things to whoever he wants and get away with it. And I," she dramatically placed a hand upon her breast, "think that time is coming to an end."

Crouching down, she gripped a hand in his short brown hair and jerked his head back. "What did you think was going to happen, John?" Mockingly, she shook her head sadly and jerked his side to side a bit as well. "You were just going to roll in here and beat the shit out of a cop and get your niece back and... what? Go back to the way things used to be, doing whatever the fuck it was you were doing to her?"

Dennis's gut clenches at the word cop, his eyes flicking back and forth quickly between the woman and her companion. But the implication of what she said drew his attention back to the man on the floor. The monster on the floor. The pathetic excuse for a creature whose existence was now measured in minutes, hours at most. He could feel the Beast stir and Patricia's fluttering response. Was this what had hurt Casey?

With her free hand, the woman casually reached into her coat and drew out a wallet. Without looking away from John, she flipping it open to reveal the expected badge and then tucked it back away. Her companion muttered something under his breath and took another sip of beer, keeping his head down and facing the bar. Now that he looked for it, Dennis thought he could see the bulge of a holster under her coat.

"Now what I'd love to do is drag your abusive, pedophilic or whatever ass down to the station and lock you up real good. Maybe introduce you to some friends of mine, the regulars down there. But sadly, Miss Cooke wont testify or file charges or tell us anything, anything, except for the fact that she doesn't want to go home. All the while triggering every little red flag I've got that she's avoiding some fucked up shit at home." When she slammed his face into the floor, it was sudden and somehow a little unexpected. Jerking his head back, she continued. "So I really appreciate you taking the effort to hunt me down. Only took a fucking week, camping out here every god damn night trying to be obvious as fuck, to get you to find us. And what did you do? You dumb fuck you just rolled in and hit me. A cop!" Again, she lightly placed a hand to her breast and looked around. "You all saw that, right? Fucker knocked me down, totally unprovoked. What happened next was just self defense..." There was a pause and she continued to look meaningfully at her small audience before the cue was picked up and several patrons hasten to mutter agreement and variations of justified self defense. Though Dennis wasn't one of them, his hateful glare at John seemed to be enough.

"And now here we are... you, bloody and fucked up here on Harold's floor, and me... definitely holding a minor to the maximum legal limit under psychiatric evaluation to keep her from going home. That girl just went through some serious shit and she does not need to be spending another night in Philadelphia's finest psych ward. True, she'll probably need some serious fucking therapy after all this... but she needs to go home. To a safe place..." she untangled her fingers from his hair and let his head fall to the floor with a thump. Wiping her hand on her pants' leg, she stood up. "And I'm pretty sure you don't fit into the definition of a safe space... So what you're going to do is drag your beat down ass back to your house, pack up, get the fuck out of that house, and tomorrow I expect to hear from my buddies down at the court house that you're starting the emancipation process."

On the floor, John Cooke groaned a little louder than he had before. Third Eye Blind started playing. The woman leaned against the bar and smiled at the bartender, who at this point was standing motionless in front of Dennis, holding a towel and glass. Dennis turned away from John and pointedly looked down at his glass, both hands loosely wrapped around it. She reached into her pocket and then dropped her hand onto the bar. From the corner of his eye, he saw her casually slide several bills, at least one fifty peeking out, across the bar. "Which exit was it again?" she asked in a cheerful tone. Stepping forward, Harold dropped the towel over her hand and nodded towards one of the several doors exiting the back. Pulling an empty hand out from under the towel, she saluted and jerked her head towards John.

Her companion sighed heavily and reached into his coat, the holstered gun flashing clearly, as he pulled out a generous number of bills and dropped them on the bar, presumably paying for their beers. By the time he stood and joined her, she'd already caught up one of John's legs and had dragged him a couple feet towards the exit. It took them together less than a minute to drag John Cooke out the back door. The bar was pointedly silent for another two minutes or so, the music still happily and loudly blaring on, uncaring.

Dennis continued to sit there, drink untouched, fighting an inner battle. The Beast was close, he could feel him. Patricia certainly had something she wanted to say and he could feel a nervous Hedwig in the background, possibly on the verge of doing something stupid. "Just wait-" he gritted out between his teeth when suddenly the music cut out and his head snapped up. Now the bar was painfully silent, quiet enough to hear the soft sound of traffic outside. Harold was glaring at two patrons who looked guilty, their heads leaning in together, clearly caught mid-conspiratorial whisper.

"Did they kill him?" a man several seats over asked in the silence. It was a level question, as if he didn't really care if they _had_ killed him, he was just curious. The pair of whisperers turned and pointedly looked at the notable stain where John had lain and the streak from there to the door.

"It was self defense," Harold snapped, cleaning up the half consumed drinks the cops had left behind. "We all saw it. And no, Detective Vikus didn't kill him. She and Detective Romero were just removing a rowdy customer from the bar and I thank them for their service," he nodded his head and looked down, wiping the bar with intense concentration. "I'm sure he's just out back, sobering up before he heads home. Ain't the first time we've had a brawl here George's. Nothing to get worked up about, nothing at all."

There was a careful chorus of agreement after that, several of the regulars in particular adding testament to the Detectives' character. It took effort, but Dennis carefully finished his drink and payed before walking out the front door. The Beast was so close... so close... He reached up to touch the first button at his throat, his shoulders rolling.

 

* * *

 

"Well fuck me," Detective Vikus muttered, crouched before the mauled corpse of John Cooke, fingers dangling between bent knees.

"Let me get this straight," Detective Johnson said from behind her, his tone dry and yet icy at the same time. Impressive, that. "You and your idiot friend Romero beat the shit out of our key witness's guardian and then dumped him behind a bar. Just left him like that, laying there in a bar parking lot in the middle of the night."

"Well, I mean, not like that..." Vikus wiggled her fingers at the body. "I might have knocked him once or twice, but he hit me first!" She twisted back at that, glaring over her shoulder. Detective Johnson stood there, arms crossed with Harold next to him, wringing his hands and dripping sweat despite the crisp autumn weather.

"So you said. Repeatedly. And with the video footage to back it up!" Her partner turned and glared at Harold. "But somehow the footage of this parking lot just happens to be missing?" The barkeep already looked pale, but at this he groaned softly looked like he might keel over at any moment.

"Oh fucking come off it, Johnson," she snapped, straightening up and carefully stepped away along the path cleared by forensics. "Are you going to charge me with his fucking murder? No. So I paid off someone to bump their security footage while I roughed up an asshole. Big fucking deal. But it does mean we don't have the tapes to pull of the Hoard jumping his fucker, and we're just going to have to accept that." Stopping in front of him, she planted her hands on her hips. A quick jerk of the head and a glare sent Harold scampering off. "I'm sorry," she tacked on.

"Jesus Christ, Vikus. You're a fucking psycho. That sort of shit is illegal." Her partner shot her a disgusted look but unlocked his arms, tucking them into pants' pockets. Turning, he headed back to the bar with the sort of swagger that just screamed Big Dick Walking. Detective Vikus rolled her eyes sky ward and offered a vulgar expression under her breath she'd learned from Romero.

"We still don't know it's the Hoard," Detective Johnson calls over his shoulder before he disappeared into the bar.

Vikus looks back at the corpse, intestines pulled out by the handful and flung about. Ragged puncture of the abdomen, fringed by only what could be described as teeth marks. There was a meaty lump several feet away with a little forensics number propped up next to it, cordoned off with tape.

"The fuck we don't..." she muttered under her breath and gave a sigh heavy with irritation.

 

* * *

 

It's 10 in the morning the day after when the police finally announce the latest girl killed. Hedwig looks over at the TV, spoon shoved in his mouth and cereal softly popping and crackling in his bowl. A graceful hand gently removes the spoon from his mouth and his posture fluidly unfurls.

"Interesting... did they not find her till just now?" The news caster flashes the city map with the latest dot throbbing on it. "My my, all the way over there? Such a speedy creature..." Posture curling forward again the spoon is jabbed into the bowl and a sullen mouthful or three is shoveled in.

"I want to remember," Hedwig sulks. A puff of rice gets stuck to the side of his cheek but he either doesn't care or notice and continues to shovel. "It's not fair. We, you know, talk about and share what we do. How come _he_ doesn't?" Again his posture shifts, this time rising up ram rod straight. The rice puff is precisely picked from his face and he pats his mouth clean with a napkin.

"He'll let us know if it's important." He's barely set the spoon down, adjusted to be perfectly parallel with the table's edge, before he snatches it up again.

"Well I think he should let us know about her uncle!" Rather than shovel more cereal, the spoon is used to emphatically gesture with in the air. "It's not the same! He wasn't sacred food, he was an asshole!"

The spoon snaps down on to the table sharply. "Hedwig! You don't know what you're talking about and you're-" His shoulders roll suddenly to one side and then the other. Hedwig gives himself a shake. "Know what I'm talking about..." he mutters under his breath, and finishes eating his breakfast alone. The bowl is abandoned on the table as he goes to flop onto the motel bed and flip through some TV channels.

There's nothing good on TV but Hedwig stays in the Light longer just to prove he can. He knows Mr Dennis has work he has to do, preparing for a future hunt or getting them supplies, but Hedwig wants to make a point.

 

* * *

 

Vikus is leaning heavily on the hood of the car when Johnson shouts at her. From the sound of it, this may have been the second time he's called her name. Scrubbing a hand over her face, she pushes herself off the car with a groan.

The hand she beat John Cooke with throbs, but not in time with her jaw. That one seems to be beating at double time. Again she probes her teeth with her tongue, checking for anything loose. She hadn't meant for him to actually land such a solid punch. Made it really hard to wrestle up even the faintest pretense of sympathy when they found his body not two hours later a couple feet from where she and Romero left it.

Approaching the dead girl, Vikus tries to blink back the exhaustion and focus. This one doesn't look as much like someone went all piñata on it, the organs not as spread about and not as present. Much more eating of the food, less playing with it.

"Well?" Detective Johnson, major asshole, asks her when she reaches his side. He doesn't turn away from the body.

"Well....?" Vikus echoes back tentatively. She takes a sip of her coffee.

"Well?" His tone turns sharper and Vikus knows she's already messed something up.

"Well, yep, she's definitely dead." One of the technicians who was kneeling near by some splatter looked up at her, their face mask unable to hide the mixture of horror and disgust in their expression.

"I'm asking about the fucking time of death, Detective. Personally, I would say it looks like 12 hours ago," he strokes the dramatic 5 o'clock shadow he's already showing.

"Well fuck if I know. We didn't look at all that many bodies over at Vice," she snaps in return. Being a jerk wouldn't help her learn these things, she knew that, but she didn't feel like her partner was being all that genuine of mentor. "If you want me to make a guess though, I'm going to need a better prompt than 'well'. It's 10 in the morning and I've officially been up for 28 hours... so you can go 'well' fuck yourself... " She took another sip of coffee.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first bit of something I wrote. Pretty sure I was quite high went I did so... Didn't think anyone else would like it but after letting it sit for a month I realized I still enjoy the cadence of it. Very self indulgent. 
> 
> Unfortunately I saw the Glass trailer shortly after writing it and my narrative fractured/I got severely distracted by a different idea. (I normally tell stories about very not-nice people, exploring someone nice in my other story feels quite novel)
> 
> Let me know if you like it and I might be able to reach down into my mind and pull forth more...


	2. Chapter 2

It's too quite in the room, just like it's too quite everywhere in the hospital. Casey had always thought what she wanted was to get away and just hide somewhere in silence, to be by herself. After almost two weeks in the psychiatric hospital, she realizes there were a couple other conditions she'd like to impose upon that fantasy.

To not be bothered by anyone was glorious, at the beginning. The staff and other patients left her alone, everyone seemly on the same page that while she was staying here, she wasn't really crazy. She didn't really belong here. There was no medication or talking to doctors. She was given unlimited access to the break room and court yard. The only restrictions really being that her door was locked at night and she wasn't allowed to leave. Funny how two simple little rules suddenly became unbearable so fast. She'd decided that she was quite done with people locking her in rooms, regardless of how nice or murderous or polite or not murderous they may be.

At the moment Casey sat slumped in an uncomfortable plastic chair, silently observing at the woman across from her. It wasn't the first time this Detective had come to visit her, though she hadn't seen her that often, and she was pretty sure this woman had a lot to do with why she was trapped here. Or at least, why she had been trapped here. Ever since they'd told her about her uncle yesterday, she got the impression no one knew quite what to do with her now.

Finally finishing up whatever document she had been reading, the woman flipped the folder closed and flashed a smile at her. "Yeah, hey," she said and then seemed to struggle to re-assemble a more concerned expression on her face. "Sorry to hear about your uncle. I know it's a lot to take in after everything. That's why I'm here today." The expression hadn't held very long and she soon was looking bored again. "We wanted to give you time to... grieve, but now I actually have some questions for you." Patting several pockets, it took her a moment to find and retrieve a pen.

"What do you mean?" Casey asked, eyes narrowing. "What kind of questions? Haven't you asked enough already?" This woman had already asked her point blank if her Uncle had done things to her. The bluntness of the question at the time had been surprising and almost refreshing, but Casey had still been unable to put into words everything between the two of them.

"Apparently not enough," the woman snapped, now searching for a field notebook she eventually found in an inner coat pocket. "And hey- maybe try actually answering these this time, ok?" It was kind of surprising to be snapped at, Casey realized. After a week of being handled by kid gloves because of her escape and then because everyone at the hospital was always so nice and careful and then because of her uncle's death... She'd forgotten what it was like to be treated like a normal person again. "Okay, so," the Detective clicked the pen, "Do you know anyone who would have wanted to kill your uncle?"

There's a ringing in Casey's ears, a throbbing pulse that she knows is her heart beat. She can't help but recall at least four different times in the last ten years where she'd vividly fantasized about killing him to the point of holding some murder weapon in her hands. Thoughts of killing herself were aways far more common, but whenever she sensed an opportunity presenting itself to end him her mind had always latched onto it. Again, she felt words just sitting at the back of her throat. It was as if they'd finally come gushing out if she could just open her mouth. She imagined a fountain flowing forth from her, if only she could just break the damn and get out even just one word. Instead, she just silently sat there, staring at the woman.

"God fucking damnit," she swore, slamming the pen down onto the table. Casey didn't flinch, some how she'd known the woman would lash out. "He's fucking dead already, ok? You can stop protecting him. Just..." Making a frustrated sound, she drags her hands through her hair. It's greasy and limp and cut kind of funny Casey notices in a detached sort of way. Once again, she's retreated into herself to silently observe everything and reveal nothing. He's gone, they're gone, and yet she still reverts to the defensiveness of prey.

"You're killing me here, Cooke," the woman says with a wide grin that both of them know isn't particularly friendly. "Could you just, for the record," here she points to the small, blank notebook that has also been dropped on the table between them, "state one way or another if you know of anyone who would want to hurt your uncle."

"They said the Horde killed him," Casey whispers. They haunt her nightmares still, every night is a dream about one of them, all of them behind the same face. When one of the staff had carefully pulled her aside and properly braced her for bad news, she'd almost laughed deliriously when she'd heard it. Her nightmare stalked more than just her dreams. It was chewing up the other nightmares out in the real world now. In the end she'd just remained silent as usual, and they'd no doubt attributed it all to shock.

The Detective rubs her lips and Casey notices this. It's something her uncle would do when he'd been sober too long. There's little doubt in her mind that this woman has a drinking problem. Judging by the smell of her and the faint yellow stains at the tips of her fingers she's also got quite the smoking habit as well. "Ever heard of a fucking copy cat?" the woman mutters, leaning back in her chair. "We can't just attribute all the murders that look the same to the same guy. I assure you, there'd be a lot more people exploiting that loop hole if we did." She shook her head and chuckled. "Trust me."

Casey just shakes her head. "No, there's no way it was anyone else."

The Detective writes this down and snaps her notebook shut. "Great, thanks, that's it then." Casey looks at her in surprise. She'd just gotten here and she was already tucking the pen away.

"Wait, that's it?" she asks in confusion, looking at the Detective as she woman stood up.

"I know, it's bullshit. My partner is an asshole. This is kind of like punishment," she rubbed her nose and sort of paused for a moment. Waving a hand, she continues, "We have to do due diligence. You know, have records to show we did our best." The notebook is tapped with a finger and then tucked back into her coat pocket. "And here I've got my testimony from his nephew saying she's got no fucking clue, so I think my work here is done."

Casey struggles to her feet and follows the woman to the door. "Wait, what's going to happen to me?" she asked desperately, reaching out to grab the woman's arm.

The detective blinked and paused, looking down at her hand and then back up at her. "How the fuck should I know?" A tear dripped from Casey's eye as the woman shook her off and stepped back. "Jesus, don't start fucking crying. I'll... I'll go check with the staff. Wait here- I mean, I'll be right back."

When she came back maybe ten minutes later, it was actually rather surprising. Casey had assumed she'd just slipped off but the woman had in fact done her damnest. The social work she'd managed to find and drag over was literally held in a rather tight looking grip around his upper arm. He stuttered and stumbled over the explanation but eventually informed her she'd be placed in the care of a youth social services organization till she came of age.

The man continued to talk, slowly easing into it and relaxing, especially after the Detective eventually let go of his arm. With a silent nod of her head to Casey, she left the room as the man continued to explain how she could begin the legal emancipation process a couple months early, should she chose to.

 

=====================

  
  
Against Patricia's wishes, they break into the Cooke residence the next night. The police have clearly already made the rounds, the landscape of domesticity barely disrupted but the tell tale signs are there. After staring through the window for so many nights, the battered furniture is easy to navigate around in the dark, though it feels strange to brush past it. Like stepping into a painting that one has gazed at for too long, familiar but surprising when new perspective reveals an unseen till now details. The floor in here is filthy, for example, and Dennis treads carefully to avoid dirty laundry and empty food containers. He tries to justify it as being cautious and sneaky but in truth he finds it disgusting and the idea of touching any of it makes him ill. In the end, they of course find nothing helpful.

Hands shoved in jacket, Dennis walks down the street. There had been no hunting tonight. He hadn't found a suitable offering thanks to Hedwig's tantrums, though that certainly hadn't stopped the Beast from emerging before. Patricia theorized that the Beast was resting, growing in strength after such gluttonous feasting since his emergence. Dennis preferred not rationalize the Beast's behaviors. He would ponder motives but never presume to say he knew. The Beast was something greater, something evolved beyond the rest of them. There was no reason to think they could understand such a mind, to explain its wants and whims. They should be thankful to be part of something so great at all, to demand answers from it would be to ask too much.

He hadn't really realized where he was going until he passed the filthy bar that he'd rejected the night before. Unease stopped him in his tracks. His chin came up and his twists as he looked over each shoulder were sensuous. "We shouldn't be here," Patricia murmured under their breath. Reaching up she touched lightly the top button of their shirt and then where wig met scalp at the back of their head. "Those police officers could be there. This disguise can hardly stand up to intense scrutiny. Come now, back to the room now." Shoulders rolled back and he shook his head slowly, brows drawn together thoughtfully.

"No," he said in a careful voice. "they shouldn't be there, they said they were just waiting for her uncle. But the bar is near by," he looked around the street again, still empty and quiet. "Someone might know what will happen to her now."

"Not that it matters," Patricia hissed back softly. "This girl is nothing but a distraction."

Dennis doesn't like that and he knows Hedwig doesn't either. Hands are pulled from his pocket and thrown up dramatically. "Maybe it does!" he cries loudly before pressure from the other two convinces Hedwig to lower his volume. "Maybe it does you guys," now his whisper is dramatic and his shoulders hunched, "Maybe that's why the Beast didn't hunt tonight. It's OUR turn to hunt... He wants us to find Casey!"

There is no argument for Hedwig would not permit one while he was in the Light. Shuffling steps bring them to the bar but at the last minute the child looses his nerve and Dennis is left standing before the door. He know's it's not too late to leave, that if he truly thought they should not enter he could side with Patricia and they'd eventually overrule the child. But as much as the Beast's motives are a mystery, his own are not. He knows he wants to see Casey again and so he pushes through the door and immediately regrets his decision.

"Heeeeeeeey!" the two cops cry out in unison from the bar at the sight of him. Their tone is friendly, the man raising a glass and the woman turning to face him, but all Dennis can hear what a mistake it was to give into temptation. The option of turning and walking out dwindles rapidly as the woman pushes off the bar and approaches him.

"Mr. Potential Witness Number Three, pleasure you could join us!" He holds himself stiffly as she drapes an arm over his shoulder and turns back to her companion. "Fucking told you all we had to do was sit here." The gun hangs in its holster on her right side, pressed between them. He calculates how hard it would be to retrieve it and escape. Would he need to kill everyone at the bar? There would presumably be cameras, he'd probably want to find those too.

"If we're working right now, I better be getting fucking paid," the man says and, saluting Dennis again with his glass, takes a drink. There are fewer people at the bar tonight than last night and most the faces are vaguely familiar.

"As if I need your fucking help to interrogate a fucking witness," the woman mutters and it seems to Dennis that she drunkenly sways on her feet as she leads him to the bar though that may just be the way she walks. As her arm drops from his shoulders, having steered him to a seat somewhat removed from the others, he knows his opportunity to grab the gun is lost. Caution has kept him from lashing out immediately but he knows how dangerous the situation is. "What do you want? Harold! Get this man a drink."

They sit and stare at each other as the bartender pours him the beer he asked for. Without asking, a second beer is poured and placed before the Detective. Picking hers up, she clicks it lightly against Dennis's untouched glass and takes a gulp. "So happy you could join us tonight. Saves me the effort of having to do any more fucking leg work than I already have to." She grins at him and it's a lot of teeth. Though the attitude is careless, the tone flippant, and the consumption of alcohol blatant, Dennis can tell she watches him with a gaze as sharp as his own. "Don't worry, this should all be fairly harmless. What's your name?"

With a deliberate and calm motion, Dennis reaches out and takes a sip of his drink before answering. He places it again on the coaster, centered. This was something they'd talked about. Fake identities in the few cases they couldn't escape notice entirely. "Taylor. Taylor Smith." He watches as she writes this down. When prompted for an address, he recites one he passed on the way here. The phone number is just a random string of digits following the local area code.

"Tell me, Taylor, did you see anything suspicious last night at or around the bar?" she cocks her head at him and stares with an inscrutable expression.

"No," he answers easily, meeting her gaze. She flashes a grin at him and jots down another note.

"What time did you leave?" Though he knows exactly when it was, to the minute, he replies with a more vague estimate. The questions start coming more quickly. He denied having ever seen John Cooke before and claimed no knowledge of why someone would kill him. She asks where he was going- "Home"- before shifting to where he was coming from- "Home"- and then tests his memory of the other patrons who had been present. With a snap and click, she manages to get her friend to slide over a folder with grainy security photos on it. Most are of the bar and he honestly says he doesn't recognize any them beyond last night. A couple are photos of himself, shirtless and bloody though far to grainy or blurry for anyone else to know this. These he lies and claims no knowledge of.

The questions start shifting, becoming strange and harder fathom their purpose. He's asked if someone across the bar looked suspicious. If he thought Harold was a good barkeep. If he'd recalled the weather last night. His opinion of the bar's decor. Easy lies, half truths, and honest answers mingle together and he continues to reply smoothly to each question though he begins to feel uncomfortable.

"Hey- knock it off," the other cop calls sharply from across the bar. Dennis stills as a wolfish grin spreads across the woman's face. He realizes she hasn't written anything down for a while as she flips her notebook closed and tucks it into a jacket pocket. With a wink, she tucks the pen away as well.

"Sorry, just wanted to see how far I could go. Some people, they get tense around cops, you know?" She leans forward and signals to Harold who seems to be hiding at the other end of the bar. "They enter a kind of zone where they're just scared shitless and will answer any question you give them. Wanted to see how far you could go." Her grin is truly wicked now as she runs a hand through her hair. "Romero here doesn't like it because... " She swung her head over to the man, "Why do I have to stop again? Hey, Harold, get his man another drink when he's done. On me." Gripping the bar with both hands she again winks at him. "Thanks for your time, Mr. Smith." Then she pushes off and is waltzing back to the stool next to her friend, around the bend of the bar and a number of seats away.

Wrapping his hands around the mostly full glass, he stares into his drink and feels a cold sweat prickle at his back under his shirt. He needs to leave, he knows that, but he's uncertain if walking out now will draw too much attention or if waiting till he's finished his two complimentary drinks is the safest plan. Now that the eyes of the cops are no longer fixed on him, he feels himself able to breath a little bit easier. He passed their test and now he looked to be safe. The faintest hint of pride licked through his head but he knew such thoughts were dangerous. He wasn't to get cocky, Patricia had warned them of that repeatedly.

He caught one of the men across the bar staring at him, though they quickly looked away. It wasn't suspicion that flared with him but embarrassment. Had everyone at the bar been watching? With the constant terrible music blaring from the sound system there was no way they could have heard him but had they seen how long she'd questioned him and known she mocked him? His discomfort was interrupted by a repeat performance from the two cops as a man walked in, apparently he was Potential Witness Number Five. The exact banter was different this time, but again she approached and threw an arm around the man before he could leave. It was obvious he wanted to.

It looked like she actually had to apply a bit of force to drag the man to the bar and seat him. Give the open spaces still available, he was surprised when she seated Number Three two stools away and place herself between them, back to Dennis. This was apparently James Alden and he too was from the neighborhood. His answers were remarkably similar to Dennis's but the man twitched and seemed to struggle through each one of them. She hadn't even finished what he thought were the reasonable set of questions before the man began to push back, asking why she wanted to know such things.

With a heavy sigh, the Detective took a large swig of her glass and set it back on the bar carefully. "I'm just asking some basic questions, James. No need to get nervous about it." The man sputtered and got even more defensive. With a second, even more dramatic sigh, she scooted off the bar stool and informed him she was going to frisk him. Protesting, he did lifted his arms as instructed but quickly fell quite as she found and removed a gun that had been tucked into a jacket pocket. Checking it and ejecting all ammunition from it, she shook her head. "James, James, James... don't suppose you have a permit for this, do you?"

The man gulped but gave a defensive reply. "The Beast is out there, you know? I've got two little girls back at home. I've got to look out for them." The Detective continued to shake her head, placing the gun on the bar. Dennis eyed it but noted that she'd slipped the ammunition into her pocket. With her back to him, he couldn't read her expression but he could tell the man was extremely distressed.

Finger nudging the barrel of the gun, she casually spun it in a slow circle. The man's attention, and Dennis's was drawn to the weapon. "I get that," the woman said. "We all gotta' look out for our own." She nodded her head. "I'm not giving this back to you though, James. See, if we only look out for our own... society, it doesn't always function that well, you know?" Dennis could tell she tipped her head to the side. "Get what I'm saying? You get all jumpy, thinking someone might be the Beast and then BAM!" She slammed her hand on the bar, barely missing the gun. Both Dennis and James jump a bit at the sound. "I've got another fucking dead body to deal with." She shook her head and stood up. "And given that it'd be a dead body, it probably wouldn't be the Beast."

Grabbing the weapon from the bar she stepped back from the man. "Don't let me catch you packing again without a permit. I don't trust dumb shits like you with guns." And with that, she headed back to her seat next to her friend. Dennis watched James watch the woman slide the weapon over to her friend who wordlessly pocketed it. He observed the way the man's hands curled and the shallow breaths he took in presumably rage. Taking another sip of his drink, Dennis made a mental note to remember the address he'd recited at the beginning of his interview with the cop.

Eventually James settled down and ordered his own drink, retreating to one of the booths along the wall. That left a clear line of site from where Dennis sat to the two cops. They continued to converse though the woman frequently leaned forward to catch what her friend was saying. After some time, struggling to hear him in the face of excessively loud 90s hip hop, she stood up on the highest runs of her stool and leaned over the bar towards the barkeep. The man rushed over to her and they exchanged words. He reached under the counter as she presumably yelled at him.

"-I can hardly think!" the woman shouted loudly as the volume of the music was suddenly turned down. Clearing her throat, she looked around the bar, having drawn everyone's attention. "Thanks," she muttered to Harold and sat back down on her stool.

Everyone could clearly hear her say, "But that doesn't fit the profile, you know what I mean?" when she turned back to her friend. "The doctor's notes clearly indicate he's being driven by a more religious sort of belief."

"Ah, isn't that stuff kind of confidential?" One of the men several seats over asked. "Ah, couldn't help but overhear," he amended when she scowled at him. The woman made a disgusted sound.

"The man confided extensively to his therapist and then murdered the woman." She took a large gulp of beer and shook her head. "Pretty sure you lose doctor patient confidentially after that."

"Actually," her friend commented but she spoke over him.

"Also, shows a serious lack of forethought, you know? Like... Does he want us to catch him? He shared a lot of fucking personal details." Again she shook her head, lips pressed together. Dennis felt himself grow cold. While he had observed enough of Barry's sessions with Dr. Fletcher to pass as the man, he realized he had no idea the depth or breadth of material covered in those sessions. They'd been meeting for years, he recalled uneasily. Who knew what you even talked about after that much time had passed.

"Like what?" Another one of the guys across the bar called. Dennis's hand on his glass tightened and he braced himself.

The woman's grin was wicked but as she opened her mouth the man next to her cleared his throat loudly. She paused and again looked about to speak when he reached forward to rap his knuckles in the table. "Harold, can we get the darts? I think a game would be fun." He turned to his companion and raised an eyebrow. She just scowled in response and it was clear the question would go unanswered. The man who had asked it looked a little put out and Dennis couldn't help but glare at him.

"Anyone?" The cop asked after exchanging a couple of bills with the barkeep and getting a handful of darts in return. "Anyone? I promise skills on the range don't translate to the board. A friendly wager perhaps?"

A pair at the bar volunteered and the man gave his friend a significant stare before turning and heading to the back corner where the board hung. The woman sucked on her teeth and ignored the guy who had asked the question despite his obvious efforts to return to the topic.

It got worse in fact, now that the woman wouldn't speak. Instead, the other patrons began to share their thoughts and feeling on the matter. One of them claimed the one of the girls from last week had been his niece's friend's sister, though Dennis thought that hardly carried much value beyond just another random person from the news. Someone else claimed to have seen the Beast but given the time and location, Dennis was extremely skeptical.

"I hear he fucks them after he eats them," one of the men mutters and Dennis's eye twitches. The man next to him challenges that idea but someone two seats over points out that if it was true, the media certainly would never report it. Which somehow leads them to the conclusion that it was in fact quite likely. Dennis grits his teeth at the injustice of it all.

"I heard he only let that one girl go because she sucked his dick," a rather drunken fellow chimed in, a disgusting leer on his face. The rage and offense Dennis felt sweep over him would surely have driven him to make a bad choice if the cop hadn't interjected herself back in to the conversation in just then.

"Ha!" She barked, pointing at the last man to speak. "You'd think that, wouldn't you? But you can just get the fuck out of this bar if you're going to lay that sort of fucking judgement on such a move." Though she smiled, she also continued to glare daggers at him as she took another drink. "Ain't nothing wrong, doing what you got to do to survive, and if that's what got her out of there I tip my fucking hat to the girl for being so clever." Shaking her head, she finished her drink and gestured for another. "But nah, that's not the case. Actually, I bet he'd have kill her sooner if she did. There was one girl three nights back who seemed... especially 'mauled'" For some reason, the woman applied air quotes around the phrase. "And what we found out later..." She shrugged, accepting her drink and tasting it. "I don't think he would have been so receptacle to such an offer. None of the bodies, boys or girls, have been used like that. The guy clearly has issues but they're, you know, probably the other kind."

She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively and now Dennis wanted to strangle her instead. Worse than the lies she suggested was the realization that she wasn't wrong about some things. The girl had offered herself to them in exchange for freedom. Patricia hadn't taken the offer, or his reaction to it, very well. No doubt she'd passed on her opinions to the Beast.

"What, so he murders these girls and eats them because he can't get it up?" one of the patrons breathed, leaning in. Dennis shifted uncomfortably. Such hypotheses weren't new, the news had made such innuendo before, but this was the first time he'd had to sit there and endure such accusations in person and so bluntly. He took a deep swallow of beer and continued to stare at his coaster.

"Nah," the cop said, seeming to enjoy the attention she was getting from the more morbidly curious around the bar. "Back in vice we certainly saw a lot of what a guy might do when he's, you know, got issues. It's not always just homicide cleaning up that shit. But, nah... I think..." She ran a finger around the rim of her glass, clearly reveling in how they collectively leaned in to hear her opinion. Unlike the rest of these pathetic fools getting a kick from gorey details, Dennis could actually justify the use in hearing her take on things. As uncomfortable as this all was, he couldn't deny the value in getting some insight on how the hunt for him was going.

"I think the guy legit believes he needs to, or at least wants to, eat these kids. Like, really, they're just food." Shaking her head, she took another long drink. "They're all just food to him." While several of the patrons at the bar seemed uncomfortable with this idea, Dennis felt a bit relieved. At least she understood.

"Who the fuck eats people," the original instigator asked. "Is it the drugs? He's, like, some meth head, right?" The woman shook her head again, holding up a finger while she lifted her glass to her lips. Dennis noted it was already well over half gone and wondered how much she could down before it became an issue.

"Yeah no," she said, grinning as she wiped her mouth on her sleeve. Dennis winced with suppressed disgust at the gesture. "I've seen plenty of meth heads do some crazy shit, including the classic face eating and more. Nah, see, that's the fascinating thing. I believe the guy is stone cold sober." This seemed to make several others at the bar queasy. More than one drink sat untouched and one of the guys even pushed his half finished pint away. "Fucking Johnson doesn't believe me," the woman continued to mutter, now speaking more into her drink than to them. "But if there's one thing I fucking know, it's what a bad fucking trip looks like and that's not this. We're wasting our fucking time chasing all those dumb ass leads..." Dennis nodded his head, finally happy to hear some good news.

The woman had apparently reached the end of her amusement in sharing provocative gossip about her work. The next couple comments and questions were meet with sharp remarks or scorn and the conversation quickly died out. Two of the guys took the opportunity to head for the exit, unsurprisingly the Detective's gruesome tales appeared to be bad for business. Dennis noticed the bartender giving the woman a sad look and mutter something under his breath. Though he do so low under the counter, Dennis watched the man poured himself a shot and knock it back quickly. Before she could order yet another drink, he stepped out from behind the bar and disappeared for a bit.

Rocking the empty glass back and forth with a finger tip, she looked around. Against his better judgement he looked up and she caught his eye. "That's illegal," she said, nodding to the empty space before her. "Drinking behind the bar. Also, can't leave liquor unattended like that. Harold could get quite in trouble if I reported that." She nodded to herself though she continued to address him. "But don't worry. I'm not going to. I understand that- that- I understand sometimes circumstances are just the way they are, you know?" Dennis continued to hold himself absolutely still, watching as the woman teeter a bit before leaning towards him suddenly. "I'm not a bad cop you know? I just-"

"Hey there," her friend said, clapping her on the back. Dennis twitched, not having noticed the man approach. Harold hovered behind them a moment, clearly having fetched the man for this very purpose, before moving back to his place behind the bar. "Looks like you've accomplished your mission there of getting absolutely shit faced." He glanced at Dennis and then back to her. "Let's get you back to your place, yeah? I think we're done here." The woman shrugged off his arm and herself off the stool in the process. He tried to reach out and steady her but she twisted surprisingly quickly from his grasp and backed up. Her fists were raised in a way Dennis recognized from the previous night.

"Vikus," the man said in a cautious way, hands raised and keeping well back from her. "Come on, you've had enough now. It's time to go, you've got work in the morning, if not sooner if...."

The woman shook her head violently and staggered to the side a bit. "No, no no no... I don't want to go home." Her gaze traveled the bar, somewhat glassy, and settled on the board her friend had just abandoned. "I want to play darts." She gave her shoulders a dramatic shake and wiggled her fingers. "I think I've had just the right amount for a game of darts. Am all loosened up." Without waiting for him, she stumbled over to the wall and yanked out the few that had been left in the board.

Her friend swore and looked over to the barkeep. "It's fine," the man said, collecting the empty glass she left behind. "But she's cut off for the rest of the night."

"Thanks," the cop said before heading over to help the woman. It sounded like he earned a jab from a dart for his efforts, his curses swallowed up by her cackling laugher.

Dennis stayed hunched at the bar though he was surprised when another pair detached themselves from the bar and joined the cops at the dart board. The first pair, having returned to their seats, were ordering another round. One of the new players had been quite keen on her stories, though the other just seemed to be really into darts. It was a struggle, but Dennis fought back his urge to glare at the particularly gossip-prone individuals who remained at the bar. No one was talking about the Beast now, but the memory of their words continued to burn him. He felt his ears grow warm and his face flush at the the very very memory of what some of them had been saying earlier. How anyone could think such things was immensely disturbing.

He'd worked most of the way through his second complementary drink when the male cop came back to the bar and ordered three beers and a water. Still flushed with embarrassment from the vulgar accusations, Dennis glanced over to where the female cop was weaving her way back from the board. Her handful of darts looked rather threatening, but what was more frightening was turning back to his drink and finding her friend staring straight at him. Sweat broke out at the back of his neck and under the wig as the man approached. Dennis stared into his glass, carefully tracking where the man's gun was behind his flapping coat. He was of slightly larger build but Dennis was sure he'd have no problems dealing with him, even without the Beast's assistance.

"Hey," the man said, leaning on one elbow against the bar, facing Dennis. "I'm sorry, she just-" he looked over his shoulder at the woman and then back at Dennis. "I'm sorry, she shouldn't have given you a hard time and- if it's any consolation, I'm pretty sure she's going to make a pass at you tonight." Dennis's eyebrows climbed dramatically, fear coiling in his gut. The last thing he needed was closer scrutiny by a cop, even if they were a drunk. The man shifted awkwardly, again looking back at her before rubbing his nose. "If you could do me a favor, and turn her down..." Looking at Dennis, he flushed a deep color. "It's not like that, I'm not-"

A hand was raised to run nervously through his hair and then held up dramatically before Dennis's face. He barely realized he was supposed to notice the gold band on it before it was shoved back into a coat pocket. "I'm married. I'm just asking for her own good."

"Yeah, sure," Dennis quickly mumbled. While he knew some of the others had turned down women at bars before, he'd never had the sort of time in the Light that would have given him such experiences. He wasn't even sure what it was like to be propositioned, beyond perhaps the experience with desperate young girl a couple nights before. "No problem, I totally understand. It wouldn't be right."

The cop looked relieved and clasped Dennis on the shoulder. "Thanks," he said and turned to the barkeep as the man delivered the drinks he'd ordered. With a nod of his head he said, "Harold, another one for this guy on my tap, would ya? Thanks again," he said, gathering all four glasses up and heading back to the board. The sound of another heavy glass being placed on the counter next to Dennis caused him to flinch.

He needed to leave, and he needed to do it now. A full, free glass abandoned would be odd but it would be a risk they'd have to take. Carefully he, drained the last of his second glass and placed his hands on the bar, ready to stand.

"The fuck, Harold!" The woman cried, stumbling against to the bar rather violently only a seat away from him. "How much he paying you to cut me off?" She grinned widely at the barkeep as he wandered over.

"He's not paying me anything, I cut you off. No more till you sober up a bit." He folded his arms across his chest but Dennis could see the perspiration on his forehead gleam, even in the dim bar lighting.

The woman snorted, turning to lean her back and both elbows agains the bar. Speaking over her shoulder, she laughed. "What, you don't believe in preventive care? Only emergency medicine here?" Her head rolled and she locked eyes with Dennis. He hadn't meant to look up, to look at her, but her statement had been so bizarre. The smile she gave him was positivity fiendish. "Don't want water though, hook a girl up with that fancy shit for all the pregnant ladies. Got any mocktails?" Muttering under his breath, the barkeep turned and started pulling a number of cans from the mini fridge from under the counter. "And put it on Romero's tab!" she called over her shoulder to him before turning her full attention back to Dennis.

Not knowing what to say, Dennis looked down into his empty cup. He regretted draining it now. With it gone he had to make a decision to start the next drink or just get up and walk out now. Slowly he glanced back up at the woman and got the impression that might not really be an option at the moment.

"You've got a certain 'Je ne Sais Quoi' about you, you know?" she asked, head tilted so far to the side it practically rested on her shoulder. He watched her mouth as she licked her lips and wondered if this was how some of his victims felt when the Beast emerged. "Quite, but such clever little eyes..." pushing from the bar she leaned in closer to him, palms resting on the stool between them. "Not little... quite large, and so blue" she cooed, slowly tipping her head to the other side.

Dennis didn't know what to say. He wasn't exactly scared of her- though she'd been able to lay John out flat he knew she'd didn't stand a chance against him. The danger she presented was a needly and complex one. He needed her to go away and pay no attention to him and he had no idea how to do that when she was staring at him like that. In the end, he said nothing and just sat there unmoving.

"Like a frightened little rabbit," she said, licking her lips while staring at his. "Why don't you take me back to your burrow around the corner and we'll see if we can get you to scream? I hear rabbits sound just like people..." She leans towards him and he leans back just as far. "Hmmmm," she purrs and edges around the stool. Now her hand comes to rest on his knee. "Don't be scared," she said with a wide grin. "I promise you'll have a good time."

Carefully he lifts her hand from his knee and places it on the bar. "I'm good, thanks," he said in a calm and steady voice. Reaching forward, he picked up his fresh drink and took a modest sip before placing it squarely on the coaster. She stands there, staring at him, till Harold comes back with her drink. It's an unsettling shade of yellow and there's a paper umbrella in it. She doesn't look angry at Dennis or even hurt. Just assessing or, more likely, drunk and confused. With the dim light and her inebriated state it's hard to tell. Eventually she salutes him with the glass and gives him a wink before making her way back to the dart board like a drunken sailor.

Two beers was already a lot for him in such a short period of time, so he barely sipped his third as he continued to sit there. Some new folks did drift into the bar over time but the cops didn't question anyone else that evening. The game ended, the female cop and her new dart enthusiast teammate celebrated loudly. Then physically. They were stumbling out the door together in under ten minutes of the game ending.

The man, Romero apparently, came up to the bar with a heavy sigh and closed out his tab. Catching Dennis watching him, he shook his head sadly. "Thanks. Too bad there aren't more nice guys out there." With another shake of his head, he tucked his wallet back into his pocket. "But I'm a cop, I should know better by now... People are just going to do what they're going to do." With another heavy sigh he nodded a goodnight friendly "Goodnight" to Dennis and Harold before leaving.

 

==================

 

Vikus is toweling her hair dry when she casually flips the medicine cabinet opened. Reaching out she shakes a bottle, listening to the rattle, and checks the label. Putting it back, she examines three more before clicking the cabinet closed.

Tossing the damp towel over the shower curtain railing, she pauses for a moment and then lowly opens the door. Steam and cool light from the bulb in the bathroom flood the room. Thankfully he was still asleep and she leans over carefully to finish unlocking the cuffs she'd carelessly left on him when she'd headed to shower. A quick examination of his hands and wrists shows no damage, thankfully. Pulling on her cloths, she tucks the cuffs back into their pouch on the back of her belt. Shaking her head, she kicked herself mentally. Leaving someone in cuffs to long was the dumb sort of mistake she only made while drunk. If she wasn't careful, someone was going to get hurt one of these days.

There's no note left or anything, she just stumbles out his front door and onto the street. She doesn't lock the door behind herself, but she figures that's what he deserves. He'd already let Trouble into his house, he shouldn't be surprised when she left a little extra behind on her way out. The air is fucking cold tonight, the beginning of winter creeping up on the city, and she inhales deeply. Patting her pockets, she belatedly realizes she's out of cigarettes and swears as she starts stumbling down the street.

Her phone is already out and the Lyft app opened before she remembers her car is is back at the bar. "Fuck," she mutters, looking up and down the street. She could drive home now, mostly sober, or fight her way through traffic, all the way across town, in the morning. With a huff, she turns and sets off down the street. The walk to the bar would no doubt help sober her the rest of the way up, she figured.

Though this part of town is crowded with buildings, flirting at the edge between trendy and industrial, there's no one out. That doesn't stop her from trying to scream when she feels herself yanked down a dark alley. The sounds is mostly lost, along with the air in her lungs, when she's thrown hard against a wall. Lashing out backwards, her elbow connects with someone but it's like hitting another brick wall. Swearing in pain, she tries to throw her weight against her attacker but finds herself instead dragged backwards down the alley, pulled mostly by the arm wrapped around her torso but also by the hand now clamped over her mouth.

There's a pause, their retreat seemingly having come to a dead end, just like the alley, and she again tries to slam her head back to no avail. She's managed to work her hand up to her holster but finds it somehow empty, not having realized the piece had been taken. Looking back down the alley, she can see it glint on the sidewalk, just at the edge of the streetlight's illumination when suddenly they're moving again. This time up.

Vikus kicks her legs for the first story but grows still and motionless as they continue up another floor and then another. There's no longer a hand around her mouth, just a crushingly tight arm wrapped around her middle that squeezes so hard she sees spots. The other hand is presumably being used to help climb- and climb is the only word possible to describe their vertical ascent.

There's a glass window on the fourth floor and then she's through it, shards of it everywhere. She's cut, yes, by several of the pieces but nothing too deep. Thankfully there's nothing digging into her hands as she finds herself kneeling on all fours on the floor, panting. She doesn't waste a moment though, rolling to the side, trying to get away. There's a brief view of her attacker, large and silhouetted by the shattered window, backed by a moonless night sky. She can only see the outline of him but she know's he's big and fuck, he's moves so fast that's all she can really tell.

A hand tangles in her hair and she's dragged up onto her feet. She tries to grip their wrist, possibly thinking to perhaps flip them over her shoulder but it's no use. Their other hand easily catches both hers, which was no easy task, and wrenches her arms back. It doesn't take long and she eventually finds herself bent over the edge of an empty workbench. There's used whippet canisters she notes, and at the far other end of the table what looks to be a discarded syringe. Not a good sign for someone hopefully dropping by and helping her out.

"Where. is. the. girl." A deep voice growls into her ear. Her wrists are still pinned behind her back and the hand that had been in her hair now simply presses on the back of her neck. There's little doubt in her mind he could snap it with ease. And it was clearly a 'he', and not just any 'he'... Vikus had a pretty good idea of who had dragged her up the building, now that she was given a chance to think.

"Go fuck yourself," she snapped and thrashed about. The hand that gripped her neck lifted her up and slammed her into the table, a move rather reminiscent of her encounter with John Cooke. Luckily there was no glass or needles here though her teeth cut the inside of her cheek on impact and she tastes blood.

"Tell me. Tell me where Casey is." The growl was surprisingly deep. Squirming, she tried to twist under his hand and get a better look. Her stupid fucking hair however draped over her eyes and combined with the darkness, she could see nothing. If only she'd had her stupid fucking side cut on the other side, she fumed.

"Blow me," she said and tried to push off from the work bench. Unfortunately that was about as effective as crying at a brick wall and she wound up just grinding back up against him. The deep and quite angry growl highlighted how that might not have been the best decision. "Just fucking kill me and move on, all right?" She struggled again to get her hands free. "I'm not going to give up the fucking girl, so lets just jump to the part where you snap my neck, alright? Jesus fucking christ, she wasn't kidding."

Vikus continued to struggle under the Beast's grip, fucking pissed she was going to go out like such a bitch. Everyone had always known she'd get herself killed on the job so it wasn't that much of a surprise. Last time should have been warning enough. The only one who had denied it had been her mother, who claimed all that smoking and booze would give her cancer that would just eat her alive. Well... turned out they were all right, but instead of cancer it was some fucking psycho. Killed on the job, eaten alive. How fitting.

At some point she realized he wasn't going to immediately comply with her request. Fucking perps, never complaint. It was a little longer after that she realized he appeared to be waiting for something. With a heavy sigh she gave up. At no point had she even gotten close to escaping. Hell, she'd been unable to move him even an inch which frankly was quite impressive.

"You sound so certain about that," he growls into her ear when she's finally stopped struggling. The thumb in her neck curved and began to press into the flesh there. Turning her head, she gagged as she thrust her neck towards the thumb, driving it deeper. He let go before it got very far, which she found surprising. The trickle of blood that began to run down her neck didn't really register.

"Yeah, yeah, or you're fucking torture me. I get it, I'm telling you, I'm not giving up the girl so lets just skip past all that." With no pressure on her neck, she arched up off the workbench. Her arms twisted painfully in his grip with the motion and an open palm caught her head before she could make impact with anything squishy. Fingers tangled in her hair and he gave her head a sharp shake.

"Tell me," he hissed this time.

Vikus barked out a laugh and grinned at the darkness, the hand in her hair preventing a head shake. "You're a really shitty negotiator, you know that? I tell you, I die and you fuck up the girl. I say nothing, I die and you don't know where the fuck the girl is." She shrugged her shoulders. "It's not even a hard question."

"Tell me and I wont kill you," he growled after another shake.

"Let's add shitty liar to that list as well." She laughed when he gave her another violent shake. "Fucking idiot," she called over her shoulder and he froze. Silently she cursed herself. It'd been too obvious, she knew it the moment she said it.

"You're trying to make me angry so I kill you faster." There was a chuckle to the voice and that's when Vikus felt the first tiniest prick of fear.

"Nah, man," she joked, again pushing back in an attempt to escape. This time she'd managed to work a foot up against the workbench and used it to brace and push harder. When it did nothing except wrench her neck and press herself flush up against him she immediately dropped back. How the fuck was this guy so strong? He literally would not budge. "I'm telling you because I thought you might want to know. You know, self improvement should be everyone's goal at the end of the day."

"I absolutely agree," a effeminate voice spoke from behind her and Vikus suddenly jerked forward, pressing back up against the workbench in an effort to get away from it.

"Holy fuck," she shouted and struggled uncontrollably for a moment in the grip before she got herself under control. The chest behind her rumbled with soft chuckle. "Oh fuck, you're one of the other ones." Vikus strained to turn and get a look at the person who held her. She'd seen all the photos of the man they'd collected, from security footage to driver's license to grade school year book photos. All those photos and yet she still couldn't really quite imagine what he looked like being so many different people.

The shake this time was sharper, tighter, and accompanied by a jerk back on her hair, pulling her back up against the chest. "But you have made an excellent point, we really have put you in a tough situation. Let's start over and I'll be more reasonable this time." The prickle of fear intensified. One always knew abstractly that serial killers were always fucked in the head, but in a sort of special way that made them very effective at their job. Hearing the man who grabbed her agree with her in such a calm tone freaked her the fuck out. The last time she'd been in this situation, they'd already gotten to the part where she'd been bleeding by now.

"Well, you start then," she said, playing along. This wasn't how the script was supposed to go.

"I would like to know where Casey Cooke is. In exchange all I have to offer is your life and a significant amount of pain. What would you be willing to trade in exchange for this information?"

"Fuck me," Vikus breathed, horrified at the idea of even considering such an offer. There was another sharp shake from the hand gripping her hair.

"That's not really on the table, dear," A breath was drawn and the exhale against her neck had goosebumps rising up and down her arms. "Or are you claiming that's the only way to get what I want?"

"What? Fuck! No!" Vikus again struggled to get her arms free, kicking back with her boot and earning herself another shake. "No, I meant 'fuck you' as in 'die in a fire, I'll never tell you'. Jesus," she breathed again, horrified at how this was going. Was she going to get herself raped and then eaten alive and then murdered? It really was going to end just as badly as they all said it would. "Who the fuck tells the serial killer where the innocent young girl is? What the fuck, man..."

Teeth grazed her neck but the horror she felt was not what she expected. It wasn't a bite but a gentle wide mouthed movement across her skin, lightly brushing here and there. Under any other circumstances it might have been called a kiss. A loud moan escaped from her lips. Usually she was the one bending someone over a table, not the other way around. Horrified with herself, she again writhed in his grasp, this time straining to get away from his mouth.

"Fuck, man, stop it!" she panted, head tipped again at an odd angle as she strained against the grip in her hair. "Yes, okay, that's fucking hot. Fuck me, I get it, I'm fucked in the head. But I don't care how good you dick, I'm not telling you where the girl is." She'd survived torture before so she knew what she was talking about there, but this was rather new to her so she had to bluff it.

The man stilled, his grip shifting slightly such that she was forced back and up further again him. Her face was turned away from him and she was briefly grateful for that. "Lets just jump to the killing part," she reminded him, panting. "And save ourselves some embarrassment."

"You're that certain I want to kill you?" the soft voice mused behind her ear. It was so close she could feel lips brush as he spoke.

"Yes! But, I mean- that's not why." Vikus gave up again, going limp and therefor slumping against him. "I'm just that fucking certain I'm not going to tell you shit." She rested there a moment before adding "No offense meant to your dick."

"Well, you said we were a terrible lair and a terrible negotiator but now you're claiming there's nothing we could say or do that would cause you to tell us where she is? That was a rather disingenuous statement on your part," the man holding her scolded. "Sounds like the problem here is you, not us."

Vikus cackled with laughter at that. "Fuck, you're right." She closed her eyes, fully relaxing against the monster that held her. "The problem is me. It's always me." Drawing a deep breath she rocked her head lightly against the hand that gripped her hair. "Can we just get to the killing part now?"

There was a long pause and she just sighed again, eyes still closed. This was taking for fucking ever. After the exhilaration of the alley and the wall and the window she'd just been ready to carry that momentum forward. Ride it to the end. Now it seemed like he was going to slow things down, no doubt opting for the torture route. It'd suck to spend the last, what, fifteen minutes of her life in excruciating pain but that did sort of line up with how the first 32 years of it had gone.

"What if we said we weren't going to hurt her," a different voice whispered in her ear. Again, goosebumps raced up and down Vikus's arms. While the previous one had whispered as one did into a lover's ear, this voice spoke quietly, as if sharing a secret. "I know you don't want anything bad to happen to Casey and we appreciate that." The grip on her hair loosened a fraction. "We know you want to protect her," the voice breathed and Vikus fucking shivered at that. Fucking serial killers and their fucking mind games.

She gasped, and tried to again arch away from him. "We're back to the lying again," she scolded though it creeped her the hell out that she didn't actually believe it.

"I know what you did, Detective," the voice whispers so softly she barely hears him. "Or did you forget where you found John Cooke's body?"

"Oh fuck," she breathed, shaken to realize how much trouble that fat fuck had brought down upon her. She thought the worst of it had been Johnson's condescension but she realized that he was probably how she'd drawn this guy's attention. At the moment it gave her no comfort to know that he was dead, she'd have much preferred the chance to kick his ass again.

"Have you forgotten we already let her go once?"

"Yeah, after taking a fucking bite out of her fucking leg!" The memory of those forensic photos gave her the strength she needed to begin struggling again. If he spoke again, she couldn't hear it as she drew a deep breath and screamed. There was only a moment of sound before the hand in her hair moved to clamp over her mouth again, holding her against his chest. They lost another minute or so to her futile struggles. It was so obvious by now that she couldn't do anything to escape but pride insisted she continue to try. Maybe he'd grow bored at some point and just let her go for the hell of it.

He tipped her head to the side as he leaned down to whisper again. "That was a misunderstanding. We would never hurt Casey now. We just want to know she's all right." The grip on her wrists tightened for a second before relaxing. "We just need to know she's ok. There's no harm in telling us, we promise."

The Detective closed her eyes again. This would all be easier if he wouldn't keep whispering in her fucking ear. They were clearly alone in a giant empty warehouse, why the fuck did he keep whispering? It was the just the two of them! Every breath of his across her ear was causing serious problems on a biological level and she was having a hard time now thinking. He was clearly lying. She had to remember that.

"What do you think, Detective?" The previous voice suddenly asked, turning his head so that his nose brushed her damp hair. "I promise not to kill you, and I promise not to hurt Casey. Is that enough to convince you to tell me? Or do you need more?" Again she felt teeth on her neck, this time a gentle nip that left her skin tingling from a heady mixture of fear and arousal.

The hand over her mouth slipped down past her throat, pausing to give it the faintest of squeezes, before dragging down the front of her shirt and coming to rest on her hip. "Oh fuck," she breathed again, worried at how this was going. Sliding from her hip down, the hand turned gripped her ass. Panting, Vikus squeezed her eyes shut. The hand on her wrists moved the same time he did, taking a step forward and forcing her to again bend forward over the workbench. This time his hips were right up against hers, leaving no room in which to struggle.

"Ah, this is interesting," the effeminate voice said and Vikus felt the hand move up to her belt. There was tug and she hears the soft familiar sound of metal against metal as he retrieves her handcuffs from their holder. She shrieks as he snaps them onto her wrists and he doesn't bother to cover her mouth this time. Now there's two hands roaming about and she's in a panic.

"Negotiating! We were negotiating, I thought!" She shouted, trying to twist about and finding herself pinned by one hand or the other as they moved across her back.

"We are," the voice practically purrs. The detective yelps as a hand comes down sharply across her ass.

"Fuck," she gasped. "Murder! How about no murder!?" The man behind her snorted in derision and a she was struck a second time. She yelped. "No killing for a month," she continued, ridiculous as it was to do so in her position. The man just chuckled and lightly wrapped a hand around her throat.

"I have a feeling you're not in a very good negotiating position, Detective," he said with an amused note to his voice.

Vikus shook her head, partly to clear it and partly in disgust with herself. "What's one month to you?" she asked, struggling to keep her voice level. "What's Casey Cooke to you?"

"Tell us," he breathed into her ear before lowering his head to the small span of shoulder that peeked out from her collar. Again teeth grazed her skin and she inhaled sharply. She shook her head and was quite proud of herself for that.

"No," she said and the word felt delicious. Latching onto the idea like the lifeboat it was, she said "I've gone and gotten it stuck in my head now- one month of peace and I'll tell you where Casey is." The mouth on her neck continued to move across her skin for a while longer but eventually pulled back.

The Detective waited, trying to calm her breathing while the Beast stood there silently, one hand still resting on her neck and the other gripping her hip. Slowly he leaned down, drawing near to her again. "What sort of bargain is that?" the whispering voice asked her.

"What do you mean? I did the math and I figure a month of dead kids is worth whatever you'll do to that one." She shrugged her shoulders as best she could, staring at one of the empty whipit canisters. "There. We negotiated. Do we have a deal?"

"I think you'll tell me, even without such a promise," the persuasive voice said again, leaning down. He ran his tongue cross the side of her neck. Vikus shivered but managed to shake her head.

"Nah, sorry. Don't get me wrong, I'm absolutely wrecked by the offer but-" The man behind her growled. "-I just have enough foresight to know I'll fucking kill myself tomorrow when I realize I give her up for a the sake of a good fuck." The hand on her throat squeezed harder and she gagged for a moment before he relaxed his hold.

"And if we promise to not kill anyone for a month," he whispered, "You'll believe us? You'll tell us where the girl is?"

Swallowing thickly, the woman nodded her head. "The department could use the fucking time to catch up," she gasped, sagging against the work bench. He no longer appeared as keen to grind his hips up against her and she was perfectly fine with that.

The man slowly wrapped his hands around her shoulders and pressed her into the table. "You'd accept our word of honor in this exchange?" he asked from above her, skepticism heavy in his voice.

Vikus held still, practically giving up. "Yeah, I mean, sure, why not. If we're negotiating the whole point is that I have to believe you at some point." She gave a sharp laugh. "Are you trying to suggest I shouldn't?"

Both hands withdrew from her and he stepped back. Vikus remained bent over the work bench for a moment longer but then carefully stood up. When she started to turn, a hand darted forward and gripped her shoulder, holding her in place. She lowered her gaze to her feet and swallowed.

"Tell us where the girl is, and if you do not lie we will not hunt for 30 days," the frightening voice behind her rumbled. Squeezing her eyes shut, she drew sharp breath. It was no good over thinking these things. That sort of self reflection never ended well.

"Saint Vincen'ts. It's at West Logan and Greene," she said with a heavy sigh. "I assume someone with your taste for kids might be familiar with it."

Vikus thought the barb quite clever and was disappointed when he didn't respond to it. It took her a couple more moments to realize why. Twisting around, she cursed loudly at the empty room behind her. Hands still cuffed behind her back, she danced around in a circle making certain he no where in sight.

"FUCK!" she screamed a the top of her lungs and kicked at an empty beer can laying on the floor.

 

=====================

 

The world came into blurry focus and Dennis's head rocked back a bit. Hurriedly he reached into his pants pocket and drew out his glasses. Immediately he froze, looking around. He was on a fire escape, several stories up. He leaned forward with care and peered down at the street below. This was not the building they'd dragged the cop up. He looked around. This wasn't anywhere near that part of town.

Turning back to the brick wall, he inched along it the short distance to where the nearest window was. With great care he peeked inside it and sucked in a breath. Yes, there lay Casey Cooke. There was no moon out, but the faint glow of the street light fell on where she slept. There were three other beds in the room, two if which appeared occupied. Slowly he shifted back from the window and leaned against the brick wall, heart hammering.

So there she was. He'd seen her. Clearly the Beast had too. He rolling his lip under his teeth, he tilted his head back and tried to decide what to do now. It was late. So late that it was getting early. He wonders if Hedwig had been right, if they'd been tasked with finding Casey. He wonders if the Beast is happier now, knowing where she is. He wonders if he'll actually keep to the promise they made.

It doesn't take long for him to accept there's nothing else to be done just then. He gets them back to the model and begins preparing for the evening. Deliberately he unplugs all the phones and devices near the bed. He plugs in their phone to charge, safely on the far side of the room.

Settling himself on the bed, he closes his eyes for a moment to be certain none of the others are lurking near by. He and Patricia were always careful when setting and undoing the locks. The others couldn't pry the combination from his memory, but if he wasn't careful they might catch him dialing it in. It was for that reason that Hedwig had been excluded, they needed to be extremely careful. With quick motions he locks them into place for the night. While they certainly don't expect anyone to reach the Light, they've taken to being cautious after the incident with Dr. Fletcher. Exhausted, his eyes soon drifted shut.

The spray of shower water was the first thing he noticed, the hand wrapped around his dick was the second. Dennis let go of himself and stepped back up against the shower tile in surprise. It was rare that he wasn't the first to wake up in the morning. Highly atypical for him not to be the one to go through the morning rituals of personal grooming and care. Looking down at his still hard cock and then at his hand he felt himself flush with embarrassment. He'd reached for the Light like he'd always done in the morning, the resistance he'd met he'd just attributed to one of the others. Knowing that he'd been able to wrestle control away meant it hadn't been Hedwig.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he tipped his head back under the warm spray of water. Knowing he'd interrupted Patricia in the middle of... this was no better than if it'd been Hedwig. In fact, now that he contemplated it, it was likely worse. Recalling the events from the evening, most certainly worse. Briefly he considered yielding the Light back to Patricia but eventually decided the that by this point it'd just be even more awkward. He didn't sense her hovering near by but still reached out to dial down the temperature of the shower. It didn't seem right, somehow, to finish what she'd started. It'd be rude, in fact, to do so, especially if he thought of someone else.

Shaking his head, he went through the entire ritual of showering and washing, not trusting Patricia to have done a good job and needing the prolonged chill to calm down. Teeth chattering as he turned off the water, he decided it would have definitely preferable to intrude upon on Hedwig. At least they shared the target of their desire and the more he contemplated what had happened the previous evening, the more uncomfortable he felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another extremely self indulgent chapter as my other story takes forever for anyone to even hold hands.
> 
> So I stumbled across the idea of "erotophobia " and the summary of https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Politics_of_Lust and it just sort of read as a character study on the Horde. There are many ways you can read the character and I think it's sometimes an interesting exercise to examine them as being really, really broken.
> 
> All I know about cops, I learned from Hannibal. Have never watched any other cop show.... Did however play a bad cop for four years in a table top game so it's a little to easy to vividly visualize bad behavior.


End file.
